Priest’s jaw clenched at the sight when I revealed it to him, but he did not move toward me, even when I was fully nude.
“Get in,” He tipped his chin to the steaming shower.
I was trembling, my emotional equilibrium compromised, but I did as he said. The hot, punishing stream of water felt like a Godsend against my aching shoulders, my tear swollen face. I closed my eyes and tipped my head into the spray.
So, I wasn’t prepared for Priest to step into the shower behind me.
I was even less prepared when the naked skin of his torso pressed against my back and his bare arms wrapped solidly around my waist. My mouth fell open on a gasp swallowed up by the rush of water as I looked down at his exposed forearms.
Mottled with terrible scars.
There were tattoos here and there, obviously done to avoid the scar tissue, but most of his skin was already tapestried with horrific markings. He shuddered violently as I slowly wrapped my arms around his on my belly, hugging those marred limbs tenderly.
We stood like that for a long time under water that was a shade too hot, scalding my skin to a high, sensitive flush.
Finally, he pulled away and began to perfunctorily wash my hair. His hands were efficient, clinical almost as they worked the suds of his masculine scented shampoo into my thick locks, rubbing hard and deliciously at my scalp. It was such a juxtaposition, this beautiful act done in such a cursory way. But it was so Priest, my psychopath tending to me in a way that was entirely outside his wheelhouse, but doing it anyway because he was keenly observant enough to know I needed it.
“After I buried them in the back, it was days before anyone came looking for survivors. I wasn’t sick anymore, but I was hungry and weak. When Father O’Neal arrived, I was delirious. He looked to me like some heavenly being come to save me.”
Another hard, clanking laugh like hollow bullet casings falling to the tile floor.
He finished washing my hair and tilted me gently forward under the water before continuing his story in that hollow voice.
“I lived on a cot in one of the antechambers in the local church. There was this massive stained-glass window above me, an angel with yellow hair being dragged to earth by the hands of Satan.”
“That’s the one at the clubhouse,” I interjected before I could help myself, soothed into a trance by Priest’s hard hands washing every inch of my body.
“It haunted me there, I thought it should haunt me here,” he explained obtusely. “I did chores for the church. Their little errand boy. Soon I became a kind of servant for everyone in the parish. Father O’Neal lent me out to his devotees when they were particularly worthy.” He paused for so long I didn’t know if he would continue.
Then, when he did, I wished he hadn’t.
“They didn’t abuse me, at first. It was only when I hit puberty at twelve that Father O’Neal claimed I wasn’t capable of being saved. That I would always be an abomination in the eyes of God. A monster born out of wedlock pledged to Satan since birth.” His voice was chilling, dead and cold as the arctic tundra. I shivered, trying to move away, but his hands grew more punishing on my body, kneading into my flesh as he washed me too clean. “First, he made me practice self-flagellation, hoping I could beat the devil out of myself. When that didn’t work, he yielded the whip and then a knife, trying to cut it out of me.
“The parishioners lived and breathed his holiness. They followed by his example. I was kicked like a dog in the streets, beaten by teenagers for sport. I learned to defend myself quickly, but whenever I hurt others, Father O’Neal punished me bitterly.”
His tone took on a dazed, almost dreamy quality as he sunk deeper into the past. He didn’t notice when I leaned back against him in a silent offer of support or when I muffled my tears in an open palm.
“His favourite way to torture me was to hold one of the lit votive candles against my skin while I recited whole Bible passages. If I got one word wrong, he chose a new spot on my flesh to burn and it all began again.”
“Oh, Priest,” I whispered, the agonized cry caught in my hands.
Inexorably, he rotated me slowly to face him. I kept my eyes closed until I was fully turned, bracing myself for the sight that would meet me.
But nothing could brace me for the sight of him naked but for the cloak of scars he wore as regally as a king his mantle. He stood there before me with his chin tilted, shoulders pinned back, feet braced apart in proud defiance of my pity.